


Is This Permanent, Then

by loveanddeathandartandtaxes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baby Watson is a SIDS fatality before the story starts, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-His Last Vow, S4 was fake so compliance is unnecessary, Scars, Trans Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2888486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/pseuds/loveanddeathandartandtaxes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he hadn’t barged into Sherlock’s room uninvited (the thought of being <i>invited</i> into Sherlock’s room threatened to derail his train of thought entirely), he wouldn’t have to spend the two hours on the train musing on those scars, where they came from, and <i>why the hell Sherlock hadn’t told him about them.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starrysummernights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/gifts).



Sherlock assured him that it was not his fault. It was hard to swallow.

“I’m a goddamned doctor; I should be able to keep my own daughter alive!”

On evenings when he was like this, he begged Sherlock to let him stay at Baker St, telling Mary he was helping on a case, not wanting to bring her into his grief. He supposed that probably had some part to play in their marriage dissolving before the summer.  When the final card was played, he found himself knocking on the doorframe to 221B, leaning in to the loungeroom.

“Second bedroom still available to rent?” he asked, aiming for levity. Sherlock nodded without saying anything, but when John returned from upstairs there was a steaming cup of tea waiting for him.

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock, did you hear me?”

John pottered around the kitchen, picking up dishes and various bits of rubbish. He was only going to be gone for three days, but if the kitchen was clean when he left, surely it wouldn't be _awful_ when he got back. “Sherlock? I was supposed to leave at two and it’s a quarter past already. I need you to tell me _with your words_ that you know that I’m going, where I’m going, how long I’ll be gone.”

“I know,” came the reply, although it sounded quite muffled. Rolling his eyes, John paced towards Sherlock’s bedroom.

“For God’s sake. Repeat after me. John is going to stay with _Harry_. John will be gone for _three_ days. John will be home around  _7 pm_  on Christmas Day.”

He pushed open the door, which was only slightly ajar.

“ _Say_ it for me, Sh-”

 [](http://practicefortheheart.tumblr.com/post/114924680509/he-pushed-open-the-door-which-was-only-slightly)

Sherlock was getting dressed, his head hidden inside a battered t-shirt. His back was turned to John, and although he spun around when he heard John enter, he was not fast enough for him not to see the lattice of scar tissue marking the skin of his back. Unsure what to say, John remained in stunned silence.

Pulling his shirt down, Sherlock fixed him with a stern look.

How did he not know about these? John chided himself for not being more observant when he tended Sherlock’s bullet wound last year. His friend had rucked up his t-shirts or opened his button-up shirts as required to let John check and rebandage the small wound, but had never actually taken his top _off_. He flushed slightly when he remembered that he did, in fact, notice that, with no small measure of jealous longing that he had tried to repress. Since he’d moved back in he’d tried not to think too much about Sherlock’s habit, long in the past now, of wandering around in nothing more than a sheet or towel. John had had two years to come to terms with and move past his attraction to Sherlock, and now, after everything, he’d been telling himself it’s too soon after Mary and _all that_ to start chasing him again.

“Harry’s. Three days. Christmas.”

He was staring blankly, he realised, and nodded hurriedly.

“Right. Good. So. I’ll see you Christmas. Have… have a nice time.”

Sherlock turned away.

“You too. Don’t eat the stuffing.”

“Wh- alright.”

Suitcase in hand, he made his way downstairs to hail a taxi.


	2. Chapter 2

He'd planned on walking to Euston, so the cab fare obliterated his train-snack budget. He hoped Harry had some food in when he got to Manchester; there had been little room in the fridge and even less inclination in his gut for lunch, on account of the skinned cat. Or... whatever that had been.

If he hadn't barged into Sherlock’s room uninvited (the thought of being _invited_ into Sherlock’s room threatened to derail his train of thought entirely), he wouldn't have to spend the two hours on the train musing on those scars, where they came from, and _why the hell Sherlock hadn't told him about them_. Running through their cases in his head, he assured himself, for whatever it was worth, that they had been sustained while Sherlock was dead and he wasn't there to protect him.

As often ends up happening on longer train journeys, he dozed lightly, and yawned repeatedly as the train pulled in to Manchester. Pulling out his mobile, he called Harry and found her by the escalator. A quick hug assured him she hadn't (yet) been drinking heavily today.

"You need to blog more, John," she berated him as they took the escalator down to the tram. "I worry about you when there's radio silence."

She wasn't being unreasonable. When John first had a blog and was _not blogging_ , years ago now, he also tended to avoid Harry’s calls and ignored her texts. His days had been spent considering his gun. It had been similar when he was mourning Sherlock.

“Yeah,” he nodded, grimacing. "It’s not like that now. I didn't have anything to say then. Now I've got no time because we're so busy. It's good." He glanced at her. "Really. It’s good."

"Yeah, alright, we'll say I believe you. For now."

"How about you," he asked desperately. “Found someone up here then?”

Glaring at him, she straightened her back.

“Shut up and wait for the tram.”

 

* * *

 

They made it through the rest of the day and most of Christmas Eve without an argument, admittedly largely because John could not focus on anything but the thought of Sherlock’s scars. He wanted to discover how they have healed, wanted to find out if there's been any loss of sensation or range of motion. He wanted to kiss them. Sherlock needed to know John's regard for him would not be lessened by a few lines.

Harry suggested they call in takeaway for dinner. John, who was already starting to investigate what she had in that he could cook with, turned to her, his expression slipping towards real annoyance.

“I’m going to cook, Harr, it’s fine.”

“I was gonna use that tomorrow,” she pointed out as he pulled things from the fridge and turned to the pantry.

“With all the trimmings, I'm sure.”

“Sod off, Johnny, it’s what I've got in.”

He stood up from where he was crouched in front of the cupboard and looked in her face.

“Jesus, Harry, you’re drunk again.”

“I drink. I get drunk. I’m a drunk; what of it? I’ll call in some Chinese.”

“I thought you were getting better! Isn't that what moving up here was all about, anyway?”

“It was about getting out from everyone’s shadow! Yours, Mum’s, Dad’s, Clara’s… I need to live my own life.”

“I know, but you’re drinking it away instead! You’ll look back and have nothing but regret.”

Harry scowled.

“Like you can talk!”

“What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean.”

“Nothing. I’m calling now.”

“No, _I’ll cook_. What do you mean, like I can talk?”

“You - you’re avoiding the best bloody thing of your life, and you've got the sheer fucking audacity to tell me off for avoiding sobriety. Well done.”

“I’m not avoiding anything,” he insisted. Harry snorted.

“Then what the fuck are you doing here? _Not avoiding_ would be hanging around your flat under some mistletoe. _Not avoiding_ would be straight-up taking him to bed and shagging him silly. I promise I’ll come to your wedding when you marry the right bloody person.”

“I’m not - I can’t - I - _Harry_.”

“John.”

He slumped, the sudden anger not even Sherlock could goad him into melting away. Of course Harry could tell.

“You don’t understand,”

“I really don’t, you know.” Harry sat at her table, not looking at John. “You beat the gambling. You’re in the city you love, with a job you love, with the person you love. And you’re fucking miserable whenever you stop to draw breath, and we both know why.” She buried her head in her arms. “I know I’m a fuck-up, but at least I gave it a _go_ with Clara.”

There was beer in the fridge, scotch in the cupboard, and vodka in the freezer, and they all called to him to take the edge off what she was saying. He sat down across from her instead, turning to look out the window.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Go home, you big idiot.” She said it softly, and touched his arm as she did. “Thanks for trying so hard to do the whole ‘Christmas with the family’ thing.”

“But-”

“No, stop. Get online, buy your ticket right now and I’ll pay your way. Have a happy Christmas.”

“You’ll be alone,” John countered.

“Maybe Santa will leave a beautiful lesbian under the tree for me for being a good matchmaker."

"But what if Sherlock doesn't-"

"Oh for fuck's sake, Johnny. He does. He will. Here, I'll do it."

She takes his phone and fumbles with it a while quietly.

“Go pack your bag," she says eventually.

“B-"

"No, go do it _now_. I'm calling us a taxi to get into the city."


	3. Chapter 3

They ended up grabbing something to eat at the greasy takeout outside Manchester Piccadilly before Harry bundled him onto the train.

“I love you,” she told him seriously. “Good luck.”

“I’m a little lost as to what’s happening,” John replied. “But I love you too.”

“I’m kicking you out,” Harry said simply. “Just get your shit together, or I’ll tell him myself.”

“Jesus. Alright, I’m going.” He couldn’t think about sleeping on the train journey; he considered taking notes on what he wanted to say to Sherlock but immediately scorned the idea. Restlessly he practiced his own deductive skills on the other passengers, although it was mostly guesswork. There was a stopover where he had to change trains at some point, and eventually, _eventually_ , the train pulled in to Euston.

A short cab ride took him to his front door, where he hesitated. If whatever he did next did not go well, he would be as lost as he was six years ago. Opening the door, he made his way quickly but silently up the stairs - it was after 1, and Mrs Hudson was not a heavy sleeper.

“I have to tell you something,” he started in a whisper. Sherlock was not in the living room, but John stood there and spoke all the same. “I should’ve told you this quite a while ago. You know you mean a lot to me, but - but I don’t think you know quite how much.”

Through the kitchen - which was, in fact, awful after just two days - he continued. “I should have told you before she shot you. I should’ve told you before I got married, really, or even before you left. Sherlock,” he said, louder now, opening his bedroom door, “you need to know that I -”

“John?”

He stopped short, just over the threshold into Sherlock’s room.

“Oh. You were asleep, sorry.”

“What time is it?”

“Uh, about half one, I think.”

“Mm. Merry Christmas.” Sherlock rolled away from John, curling into himself. John spotted a flash of red and blue in the light that came from behind him.

“Merry Christmas. Is that my jumper?” Sitting up rather suddenly, Sherlock looked down at his torso with something of a grimace.

“Yes, I believe so.”

He choked back a chuckle. “Yeah alright. It’s been cold, I guess.”

"... Yes."

"Well. Good night."

"What do I need to know?"

"Sorry?"

"When you came in. You said I needed to know."

"Oh. Just that, um, that I'm home. So you don't, I don't know, burn the house down with me in it or wander the kitchen nude in the morning."

"Mmh."

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock seemed subdued in the morning when John stumbled down the stairs for a shower. He was still wearing John's jumper over his pyjamas, and fondled his violin affectionately.

“Put that down a sec, yeah? I've got your Christmas present."

"Come now, John, I thought we weren't going to do this again this year. I don't do Christmas gifts."

"Yeah, I know, but I do," John countered sharply. "I got you something because you're my best friend and that's what friends do. The boring ones, anyway."

That received an eye roll as Sherlock accepted the gift. 

"It's a book." He sniffed at the wrapping paper. "An _old_ book."

"Yeah. If you're going to deduce it instead of opening the bloody thing, I'll be in the shower." Fifteen minutes later he came back to the living room to see Sherlock poring over the book.

"You mentioned you like bees, so..."

"I mentioned it _once_ , more than a year ago. I thought you were busy being infatuated."

"I do still listen," John replied, trying to focus on Sherlock’s clear enjoyment of the volume instead of his claim that John's relationship with Mary was best described as 'infatuation'.

"Well, of course it was, don't look at me like that."

"So you like it, then?"

"What?"

"The book. You like it."

"Oh, yes, thank you, John, it's fascinating."

"You're welcome." He sat in his chair and pulled up a few news pages on his computer.

"No good murders yet, today."

"Give it time.”


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade called as it was getting dark - there hadn’t been a murder, precisely, but he sounded defeated as he told John Sherlock would probably enjoy it. John hummed in agreement and threw Sherlock’s coat at him.

 

* * *

 

 

Things seemed to settle back to what passed for normal in Baker St. However, Sherlock began to occasionally openly glare at John, who had not been able to close his thoughts or feelings down as he had in the past. He tried to talk to him - just talk, although he worried about Harry choosing an arbitrary deadline to _Talk_ to him.

Weeks later, when their quarry had a friend with a pistol and bad aim, John sided with Sherlock against Lestrade taking them to an A&E for the bullet graze under Sherlock’s left scapula, but quickly switched to arguing with him when they got home and Sherlock declared he would treat his own wound.

“The hell you will, Sherlock! I’m not going to let this go untreated and fester.”

“It won’t-”

“Shut _up_ , you know what I mean and you know I’m right. Bathroom, shirt off, now.”

Sherlock drew himself up into his most imposing pose, looking down his nose at John. John cocked a hand on his hip and pointed, unmoved.

Once in the bathroom, John retrieved his first aid kit and watched as Sherlock drew off his jacket slowly, but then fumble, hands shaking, when he was down to his shirt. Once that was removed he stopped moving entirely.

“Sherlock?”

“No,”he said in a small voice. “Go, I’ll look after it myself.”

“Turn around, Sherlock.”

“John, I would very much rather you left.”

John made sure he had non-threatening body language, a skill learnt as much in consultation rooms as in Afghanistan, before he said anything else. Sherlock was being incredibly skittish, and he didn’t want to scare him off; he needed to look after him.

“I’ve already seen what happened to your back, you know that.”

“Yes, well. I was rather hoping you would have deleted that by now, especially as you've been acting _weird_ ever since th-”

“You what?” John burst out. “I’m not the one being _weird_ , Mr Glare. And you hid this from me all that time, why? That’s what’s weird. I only want to help; I wouldn’t judge-”

“It’s clear you find scars unattractive; you can barely acknowledge your own without-”

“It wouldn’t change what-”

“- a deep grimace, I don’t want - want you to be made uncomfortable by-”

“- what I thought of you.”

“- by the mess going on over my back, never mind my chest. And of course it will change what you think of me. It already has. You’re looking at me with _pity_ ; stop that.”

Wondering if his admission, round-about as it was, had been lost on Sherlock, he moved closer.

“It’s not pity, Sherlock. Yes, I want to bury whoever did it, but I suspect Mycroft already has. I just… It doesn't change my opinion of you, I swear.”

Still hesitant, Sherlock nodded and turned away. Keeping sure to limit his touch to bare professionalism, John treated the wound and dabbed cream over it. He did also take the time to visually examine Sherlock’s back - he’d been given the opportunity, after all, and it would be stupid to waste it.

The marks on his back told a horrific story. There seemed to be multiple sets, groups of lines of similar widths and angles, a smattering of small circular marks that didn't bear thinking about. It had been two years now: they were not going to heal any further.

“What does it matter to you, anyway, what I think about them,” he mused. Sherlock stiffened under his hands as he pressed on a bandage.

“Your opinion is of the utmost importance, John.”

“Uh. Thanks.”

Sherlock left the bathroom, closing his bedroom door quietly.

 

* * *

 

The following day, as most days after a successful case, was a blissful reprieve from mania. Sherlock continued his (fourth or fifth) perusal of his beekeeping book, and John caught up on emails and bills. After dinner, John bullied Sherlock into letting him change the dressing on his back, with less difficulty than the day before. Sherlock began unbuttoning his shirt as he sat in the lounge room, and John tore his gaze away long enough to collect the first aid kit. This time after he smoothed cream over the fresh wound, he traced a finger lightly over a particularly silvered line.

“Did you experience much in the way of limited motion, while these were healing? Were-” he swallowed hard. “Were any of these deep enough to affect the muscles? How did you go about rehabilitation?”

Sherlock twisted to look over his shoulder at John.

“I was quite unable to stretch the skin of my back at all without splitting something open again. There were only a couple lines that cut deep, but Mycroft of course ensured London’s best practicing doctors were available to assist me.”

John frowned.

“London? You were _here_ when these were healing?”

“I received them directly before returning here to deal with the Underground bombing.”

“You-” he had to pause. “Your back was raw with these when you climbed into that bloody bonfire to pull me out.”

“Well…”

“You had fresh wounds on your back when I knocked you down in the restaurant? And you never told me?”

“Like I said. You were busy being infatuated. Once you made that quite clear, I didn't want to… impose.”

Defeated, John hung his head until it rested against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I am so sorry,” he murmured. Sherlock twitched.

“I don’t _need_ your pity.”

“No, not - no. This isn’t pity. I’m sorry for doing that to you the night you got back, for not making it clear you wouldn't be imposing to ask for my help… for marrying her when you were _right here_. I’m sorry.”

For a charged moment, Sherlock sat motionless.

“Still,” he said at length. “Don’t worry about these. They were worth it, in the end.”

“What’s worth all this to you, Sherlock, seriously?”

“Your life.” He turned in his seat to face John, although he wouldn't meet his eyes. “Even if they are so repulsive you never… want me, I would do anything to ensure your safety.”

Leaning forward in small jerking motions, Sherlock touched their foreheads together. Their breath mingled.

“You’re a bloody idiot, Sherlock Holmes. Nothing could stop me wanting y-” Sherlock cut him off, pressing a firm closed-mouth kiss to his lips.


	5. Chapter 5

 

“Oh thank Christ,” John breathed. “I thought I was going to go insane if I went any longer without - without this - with you.”

Sherlock responded only by pressing closer against him until he had to lie back and let him wedge a knee between his hip and the back of the couch. He stayed where he was on hands and knees over John’s body, and after a long moment of enthusiastic but stationary kissing, John slipped a hand between them to stroke Sherlock’s chest.

“That’s very distracting, John,” berated Sherlock, with a gasp.

“Mm. D’you want me to stop?”

“ _No_ , John. I want - I - I’ve very little partnered experience. I want, but I don’t know. What do you want?”

“Very little… _partnered_ … alright. Yeah.” He pushed up at Sherlock’s shoulders until he sat up. “I want to do this properly. Take you to bed, unwrap you and just…”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, come on.”

 

* * *

 

He didn’t want to ask if Sherlock had condoms - just in case they got that far - so he coaxed him up the stairs to his own bedroom. Falling back onto his mattress, he pulled Sherlock on top of him and kissed him languidly.

Hands pushed at his shirt with graceless haste.

“Off, it’s not fair. Get this off.”

John nodded and unbuttoned the shirt, thrilling at having Sherlock prop himself up as he was over him, touching each other only at the mouth or where John’s knuckles brushed Sherlock’s torso. When his chest was bare, Sherlock shifted.

“Can I-”

“Yeah, course.”

Expecting Sherlock to investigate the wound through his shoulder, John jerked in a little surprise at the lips pressed to his sternum.

“Oh,” he breathed, and tangled his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Yeah.”

“Would you like me to do this for you,” John asked, chest heaving. “We could do it with mouths, or hands, or, or even just rubbing on each oth-”

Sherlock’s tongue darted out to lap at his skin and he jerked without conscious thought.

“Ah - Sherlock, no, I-”

“Oh, yes,” he smirked, and licked him again.

John squirmed and tried to bite back his laughter, but when Sherlock wiggled his fingers into his sides, he giggled and yelled.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” he gasped when the torture abated. “I was trying to set the mood.”

“This is a good mood,” asserted Sherlock.

“It is. Yeah. Come back up here? I just want to do this right, you know.”

Sherlock returned to kissing his mouth, and John carefully urged him over so they were lying beside each other, and then further, until their positions were reversed.

“Trousers off?”

“Mm.” Sherlock clenched his jaw. "Wait."

"Alright," John said, and tried to move back, but Sherlock held him close.

"You know about my-"

"Sherlock, I write your prescription for T."

"Yes, well, I've had all the surgery I plan on having, but -" he shook his head and began fumbling with the button, but John took his hand and pressed a kiss to the knuckles.

“It's fine. It's _you_. Let me.” He undid the fly and eased the trousers down over bony hips as Sherlock pushed with clumsy fingers. “Sshh, it’s all fine.”

“Could you -”

“Probably,” John grinned.

“- come with my fingers inside you?” finished Sherlock, and John _knew_ he had changed what he was saying to be contrary, but if Sherlock honestly thought John hadn’t considered both fucking and being fucked _by_ Sherlock, he needed to be corrected immediately.

“Yes, of course. Is that what you want tonight?”

He faltered, like John had really surprised him.

“I - uh.”

“I mean it, Sherlock, I want to do this with you every way possible. You can invent a new way. Anything.”

“Just like this, now. Take your trousers off, and then… just like this.”

John shucked his clothes and returned immediately to Sherlock’s embrace. Long arms wrapped around him, and he slipped his hand down to position his cock between them, pressing against Sherlock's own. He relished Sherlock’s hiss at the sensation.

They ground against each other, and John gasped kisses into Sherlock’s neck. Blunt nails dragged a little on his back as Sherlock tensed and bucked and came underneath him.

“ _John_.”

“I’m here, love. That was beautiful.”

“Your turn. Come - on -” he panted, and John giggled again at his impatience, but Sherlock wasn’t finished. “- me, come on me John.”

“Fucking hell, Sherlock.” He shifted to grip and stroke his cock at a furious speed. The hands on his back trailed with impossible delicacy to graze his ribs, his nipples. With his lip between his teeth, he groaned as he spilled over Sherlock’s chest and stomach. Sherlock swiped a fingertip over his skin, tasted it, and continued tracing lazy swirls over his chest as John slumped to his side.

“This is what you were going to tell me on Christmas.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock hummed tunelessly.

 


	6. Chapter 6

When he woke, there was residual warmth on the mattress beside him, but no body. John groaned and rubbed his eyes. He wondered if morning-after etiquette even occurred to Sherlock.

Wrapping himself in his bath-robe and making his way down the stairs, he encountered a distinctly bacon-and-toast scent.

“Oh,” he said, stopping one step up from the landing. Sherlock leaned into view through the kitchen doorway.

“Go back to bed,” ordered, his face stern. “You weren’t supposed to wake up for another ten minutes; I was going to bring this up.”

John took the last step down. “You’re making me breakfast in bed?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, and adjusted his unfastened dressing gown, inviting John to admire his form. He blinked slowly, and moved closer.

“You’re cooking for me.”

“Ye-es,” he repeated, drawing out the sound.

“You’re cooking breakfast in bed. For me. The morning after a _very_ nice night.”

“You seem to be having difficulty with the concept.”

“I love you?” John’s throat went tight, forcing his voice up into a question. The tongs in Sherlock’s hand clattered to the floor.

“I mean,” he amended, clearing his throat, “I love you.” Then he pursed his lips and stood at attention, waiting for Sherlock to respond.

 

* * *

 

“Um,” Sherlock finally gasped. “The bacon.”

“Sod the bacon,” John suggested.

 

* * *

 

He ate the bacon, along with the eggs and toast, and drank his tea. Sherlock whisked away his cup and plate as soon as he emptied them, despite John’s protests. Getting to his feet, he crowded Sherlock against the sink.

“Good morning,” he murmured into Sherlock’s shoulder blade.

“I trust you slept well,” Sherlock replied.

“Could’ve woken up better,” he pointed out. Sherlock turned in his embrace and scowled at him.

“You were _supposed_ to wake up ten minutes later. Then I would have been back. With breakfast.”

“Right, I know. Sorry. Thank you.” With a hand on either side of his face, John drew Sherlock down for a tender kiss.

“I understand that there is a custom that dictates we should have sex this morning,” Sherlock stated into John’s mouth, his hands finding purchase on John’s hips. “I believe it would be to reaffirm this change in our relationship.”

“No,” John corrected, adding a nip to Sherlock’s lip for emphasis. “If we do it it’s because you’re the most gorgeous bloody person I’ve ever met, and I love you, and you want to. Not because we should.”

“Well. We could… I mean if you want to, I’d like to try perhaps, penetrative -” he cut himself off and took a deep breath. “Come with me to my room, and then come with me. In me?” High points of colour spread on his cheeks.

 

* * *

 

John stumbled over the threshold into Sherlock’s room, Sherlock’s hand encircling his wrist. He tried to keep his breathing even when he was pulled onto the bed, onto Sherlock.

"I need you in me, John," Sherlock gasped. Holding John's wrist, he guided his fingers to his arse. "Here. Please." John nodded desperately.

“I’ve never… like this, with anyone,” he admitted. Sherlock pulled his hips down to grind against his own, and lipped at his ear.

“But you know what to do.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I. Sherlock.”

He smeared his lips against Sherlock’s throat as he thumbed the band of his pants. Receiving a tight nod, he shifted back enough to throw off his own robe and pants, and remove Sherlock’s underwear. A lone freckle on his hip begged to be kissed. John obliged.

“We'll need - Do you have-”

“Yes, in the drawer.” He gestured loosely, and beside an unmarked box, John found a half-empty tube of lubricant and an unopened pack of John's preferred brand of condoms. Sherlock made a face at the latter when he fished them out.

“I knew you would. I’d rather not use one,” he demurred. John fixed him with a hard look.

“Then we get tested. But for now -” he slicked himself a little and rolled on a condom. “Will you turn over?”

Apprehension flickered briefly in Sherlock’s eyes. Shrugging, John settled down to lick and kiss a path to his flushed cock.

“John!”

“Alright, it’s okay,” he murmured with a little more confidence than he truly felt, dragging his lips against sensitive skin. “I’ve got you.”

Warming some lube in his hand, he slipped his hand back, pressing between Sherlock’s buttocks to nudge against his anus. Sherlock groaned and shuddered, and John circled it gently.

“Have you tried this, yourself?” he asked, with a glance up through his lashes. Sherlock nodded.

“Yes, I liked to... imagine this.”

“Mm. Me too.” His finger slid part-way in. When Sherlock involuntarily clenched his muscles then very deliberately relaxed again, John pushed further in and pulled back in increments. ”Good?”

Sherlock nodded.

“John. Please.”

“I’ve got you,” he repeated.

“You’ve got me,” Sherlock agreed. He squeezed his cock and rubbed it firmly as John continued to ease his finger into him, pulling back and advancing.

“Can you hold it up for me?” John asked. “Only, I’d like to see if I’m any good at giving blowjobs.”

Sherlock’s hips squirmed, his face reddened, and he nodded. Pulling up the skin around his cock revealed more of it, and John beamed up at Sherlock.

“You’ll tell me if it’s not good, okay,” he said, then gently covered the head of it with his mouth, keeping his tongue soft as he rolled it against him.

“Oh, _John_.” He pushed his body _down_ , onto John’s hand, and John continued pressing into him, working a second finger alongside the first as he took him right into his mouth. Sucking at it produced a tight little bucking up of his hips, and when he finally had his fingers right into him, pushing his face firmly against him could make him twitch and moan.

“John, that’s -” Sherlock gasped and did not continue. John stilled his hand and pulled back.

“Good? Not good? Too much?”

“Breathtaking, John, give me a minute,” he groused, chest heaving. Grinning, John pressed a kiss to his inner thigh.

“You take all the time you need.”

“It’s not about _time_. It’s just - love is very distracting, isn’t it?”

“Well.” John tried to take a deep breath, but his chest was tight. “Christ, Sherlock. Yes, it is. I mean. I-” he swallowed and fell silent. Sherlock’s fingers gripped his chin and tipped his head to look him in the eye.

“I love you too. Please, I want you inside me now.”

“Yeah.” He shifted his fingers from inside Sherlock and hoped he was prepared enough. This time when John nudged at his hips, he obligingly rolled over, discarding his robe in the process, presenting his arse and clutching his pillows under his head.

“You’re sure about this,” John checked, adding more lube to them both.

“Yes. I love you. Yes.”

John placed a hand on Sherlock’s hip more to steady himself than anything else, and pushed in.


	7. Chapter 7

There had been a drawn-out moment as he slid deeper into him, when Sherlock moaned like it was being squeezed out of him and John couldn't breathe at all. When he felt the cheeks of Sherlock’s arse against his hips, he let out a ragged sigh, and it felt like Sherlock _melted_ a little, dropping his shoulders to the mattress and pushing back to grind against him.

Running a hand over Sherlock’s lithe torso, John managed to stammer out an enquiry as to how he felt.

“Incandescent, John; I want to do this forever.”

John chuckled.

“Maybe not _forever_ , love, but definitely often. Whenever you like.” He bent down to press a kiss to Sherlock’s back, right over a particularly nasty scar. “Within reason.”

Sherlock stiffened. “You don’t have to-”

“I know. I want to.” He rocked into him, mouthing at all the skin he could reach, running his hands over and over everywhere his lips couldn't.  Reaching around and under Sherlock, he followed Sherlock’s hand as he stroked himself.

“John - _John_ ,” Sherlock panted. “I want more. Harder.”

“Yeah?” John thrust harder. “I suppose. You don’t do anything by halves, do you?”

Shaking his head as best he could with half of his face planted in the mattress, Sherlock bowed and arched his back, an unending motion both sinuous and tense. Little noises escaped him, and John watched fondly as he bit into a pillow to muffle them.

“Hey, no, let me hear you. You like it, yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Nnn, John!” John felt Sherlock clench around his cock as he wailed softly, his hand on himself speeding up. With his own hands on Sherlock’s waist and shoulder, John held him still while he thrust into him more urgently, both chasing their climax.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered.

“Mmh!” Sherlock responded, falling still for a long second before groaning, long and loud, as he came hard underneath John, hips jolting. His legs began to give out and he sunk to the mattress. John followed him down, still deep inside him.

“God, _so_ fucking beautiful, Sherlock, I love you.”

He could see Sherlock smile lazily.

“You too.”

Pressing his face to Sherlock’s skin, John snapped his hips a few more times, letting his orgasm burst through him like a wave of lightning. He kissed and kissed again everywhere his lips could reach, loving clear and marred skin alike. When he could breathe again, he shifted to carefully pull out of Sherlock, and excused himself to the bathroom for a moment.

Coming back with a warm flannel, he swiped with care between Sherlock’s buttocks and then, rolling him to his back, over his softening penis.

“Better?” he asked.

“We could turn the upstairs bedroom into a laboratory, perhaps, or an archive,” mused Sherlock. “You’re right, I shouldn’t have bothered making you breakfast,” he continued, and John choked back a laugh. “This would be the best way to wake up.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” John suggested, reclining beside him.

“Maybe every day.”

“You want this to be permanent, then?”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock scolded. “It already is.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there we go. merry christmas, starrysummernights! my unending thanks, practicefortheheart!


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